


We're All Right at the Moment

by EnglandsGray



Series: All Right [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, London in Lockdown, One Shot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Short & Sweet, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/pseuds/EnglandsGray
Summary: Just then, the vision of him laying on a bed in a ward not that far from where she was trying to concentrate, invaded by wires and tubing, didn’t have a hope of reaching her.A quiet moment at home, where an unsettling reality loses some of its power.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: All Right [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121246
Comments: 30
Kudos: 70





	We're All Right at the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> A little lockdown life insight. And an exercise, for me, in writing and publishing without overthinking. 
> 
> All credit and all love to the BBC, as ever. Were it not for their decision to make all four series available on iPlayer back in March, my love for Sherlock and Molly (and everyone) might have remained in my head. I'm loving writing them so much, so I am very grateful, even despite the circumstances. And that pretty much sums up the feel of this fic. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Hope you all stay safe and well xx

221B Baker Street, London

August 2020

The dark curls she had always imagined would feel like silk were, in fact, courser than that. She ran through two or three of them with the comb and straightened them out, stopping short of the ends, trapping them between her fingers the way she’d seen her own hairdresser do in the mirror. As the scissors cut through the strands they made a muted, soft sound. Not at all like the sacrilege she expected this experience might sound or feel. Nothing about him being hers was like she expected. But then, her hopes had scarcely dared to become expectations. Everything was, though, far lovelier. 

She allowed the short hairs to fall to the floor, onto the towel, before moving on to the next portion of the jet-black, shower-slick, heavenly-scented mop under her fingers. She worked her way around, carefully, slowly and likely inelegantly (this was definitely not a second-career option for her). Every now and then, a little clump of trimmed hairs would land on his bare shoulder, so she would pause and brush it away. Those shoulders were relaxed, rounded, although his posture remained ever perfect. His fingers were linked in his lap, gently curled around each other. Sometimes, her stomach would lay flush against his arm or back. Anytime she didn’t need both of her hands, the one not holding the comb or scissors would find a patch of warm skin to rest upon. 

If she accidentally pulled his hair, felt his head tilt fractionally, she whispered an apology, inches from his ear. When he sighed, which he did often, especially when she ran her finger-tips over his scalp, it was gently, the merest hint of his voice sometimes coming through. His eyes were closed, eyelids relaxed, lips lightly together, forehead unlined. Untroubled.

Each tick and each tock of the clock seemed elongated. Languid. As if the air around them was more dense. As if it held everything more surely. That warmth which could only be late summer beat its familiar path into their bones, quietly suggesting naps with the windows open, bringing with it the hint of green grass in the park or the spray of gentle waves on the sand. Traffic and London were a quiet, lulling drone. 

She sighed, got even closer to him, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. Planted a soft kiss on the skin below his ear. Listened to that barely-there rumble.

Molly didn’t need to count the faint, silvery marks on his back, even though she had opportunity. If she had wanted to, she could have looked up into the mirror hanging above the fireplace and seen a reflection of the scar on his front. But her gaze didn’t lift. Just then, the vision of him laying on a bed in a ward not that far from where she was trying to concentrate, invaded by wires and tubing, didn’t have a hope of reaching her. When she laid her hand on his back she couldn’t feel the damage to his lungs she fretted about in other, distant, forgotten-for-now moments. Being constantly under threat was nothing new to him and she wasn’t altogether unfamiliar with the idea. Nevertheless, the menace of the virus hung heavy and unfamiliar. On all of them. Everyone. 

But not now. The serenity which wrapped around them in that moment had waited many weeks of despair and uncertainty before edging its way in. It might not stay for long. But it was here, now.

“I dream of knowing what you’re thinking,” Sherlock’s eyes stayed closed, his voice low, words floating, taking their time. 

Molly smiled. Made her last snip before smoothing his hair from his temple to the base of his skull. The deepest sigh yet. She placed the scissors on the table and wound her arms around him, pressing herself into his back, her face into his neck. His fingers encircled her forearms, lips on her skin.

“We’re all right at the moment,” her mantra.

“We’re all right at the moment,” he confirmed. 


End file.
